


shush me (walking me across a fragile line)

by idekman



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Canon compliant-ish, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Okay Not Really, Smut, also some plot, handjobs, inspired by that promo photo, ish, sort of, you know the one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 06:25:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4656063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idekman/pseuds/idekman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Do I scare you, Elliot?’ Tyrell asks, voice whisper-soft, and Elliot forces his eyes shut for a moment. When he opens them again, Tyrell is still watching, silent and still. </p><p>‘No.’ </p><p>
  <i>Lie.</i>
</p><p>-</p><p>Tyrell visits Elliot in his apartment. Things escalate from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shush me (walking me across a fragile line)

Tyrell Wellick is in his apartment.

Tyrell Wellick is in his apartment, _shushing him_. He looks pissed, for a second – but then the face flattens out, all sharp lines and angles. It’s dark in his apartment and Tyrell’s eyes are bright, bright blue.

Something burns, in the pit of his stomach. Tyrell’s staring around the apartment, mouth open, face pale. He looks like an animal, backed into a corner – shoulders raised, jaw clenching occasionally. Tyrell wears a good mask – but it’s slipping today. All the tell-tale signs of a fractured mind are on show, for everyone to see –

No. Not for everyone. Just for him. Because Tyrell Wellick is – _Tyrell Wellick is in my apartment._

_Why?_

And then Tyrell’s pulling on gloves and – of course. Tyrell’s here to murder him. Elliot’s not sure why – does he know too much? About Tyrell? Or maybe he just does it for the hell of it – he looks like the kind of guy who would get a kick out of beating someone to death.

Tyrell’s not looking at him like he’s going to murder him, though. In fact, the more the exec stares – the more he talks, too – the softer his gaze gets.

Tyrell strangled someone. It doesn’t really surprise him. There’s some sort of emotion struggling its way to the front of his brain – revulsion? Fear? – but his mind’s a cloud, and any coherent thought comes to him like a voice screaming through glass. Muffled and odd. All he can feel, really, is panic. 

Tyrell’s talking about power. About disappearing into the background – disconnecting. Elliot can understand that; he feels it now. Distant, lost, just barely tethered to the ground – to this conversation – by sheer will alone.

Tyrell takes a step forward – and christ, this is familiar, although he can’t quite think why. The office, maybe, when Tyrell had walked into his personal space, utterly oblivious to how he’d shied away. Now, though – now he leans into it a fraction, not quite taking in whatever Tyrell’s telling him, just watching the way his mouth moves as he speaks. They’re close – too close, really, and Tyrell had taken off his jacket – _why?_ – so Elliot can almost feel the heat coming off his skin through the shirt.

‘I thought I’d feel guilty for being a murderer,’ Tyrell tells him. ‘But I don’t.’ He braces – for what? Impact? Tyrell raises a hand and his throat constricts. ‘I feel wonder.’

The hand falls and he’s wound tight, too tight, so that when Tyrell lays a hand on his jaw, latex-covered thumb brushing just under his eye, he flinches as if he’s been hit. Tyrell just blinks, watching him, the both of them listening to Elliot’s short, sharp breaths. Panic threatens to swallow him.

‘Do I scare you, Elliot?’ Tyrell asks, voice whisper-soft, and Elliot forces his eyes shut for a moment. When he opens them again, Tyrell is still watching, silent and still.

Something’s screaming at the back of his head. Some odd, forgotten memory.

‘No.’

 _Lie_.

‘Get off me,’ he continues – but it’s too quiet to hear, and the words get stuck in his throat, and Tyrell smiles a little. Déjà vu washes over him – something familiar about this moment. Tyrell’s hand on him – stopping him?

‘Why are you wearing gloves?’ Elliot asks abruptly, the squeak of latex grating at him. Tyrell blinks, rearing back a little – is it anger?

No. Shock. Words echo in Elliot’s head – _a constant in a sea of variables._ Ah. Wellick doesn’t like being surprised, then. Or, at least, doesn’t like being surprised by Elliot.

Abruptly, the memory rushes over him; the two of them in a car, _we’re supposed to be allies_ , Elliot trying to leave.

Tyrell had grabbed him by the collar of his t-shirt, dragged him back over the seat, voice loud in the confines of the car’s backseat. At the time, it hadn’t fazed him – he’d brushed it off, casual and easy. Mr Robot had brushed it off. But now, the memory of it – and Tyrell touching him now, without permission, without being asked; something tight and hot constricts his ribcage, his brow creasing together and –

_Angry. Am I angry?_

Instinctively, he lashes out – knocks Tyrell’s hand away and snatches at his tie. And because that feels good, and natural, he continues the motion – walks Tyrell (pushes him?) backwards until he’s slammed up against a wall.

And then, of course, like a cat with a mouse, he doesn’t know what to do with him. Kill him? Eat him?

Tyrell’s pupils are dilated a fraction, pitching out uneasy breaths. He’s scared. _Tyrell Wellick is scared of me._

He pushes his hand into the man’s hair, grabbing a fistful and pushing his head back – just to see if he can, really. Tyrell’s neck stretches out, long and white and pale, apple’s adam bobbing as he swallows and –

Oh. _Oh_. Not scared, then. He laughs, low and long, and Tyrell looks like he wants to spit at him. He wraps a hand around the curve of Tyrell’s throat and kisses him, hard and harsh – just to see if he can.

It’s shocking, really, the way Tyrell melts into him, a moan rumbling through his throat. Suddenly, a lot of things make sense. Asking him to come work with him, following him to the bathroom. Coming to his apartment in the middle of the night, waiting until he was alone –

Of course, he gets lost in his thoughts, and that’s the moment Tyrell takes advantage of. Abruptly, he’s being turned, back slammed against the wall, Tyrell’s mouth on his, hot and heavy and demanding. Tyrell takes control easily, pulling at his hair until it forces a moan out of him, shifting his knee in between Elliot’s thighs.

‘F-fuck you,’ Elliot stutters out as Tyrell comes up for air. It earns him a laugh as Tyrell’s hand goes for his zipper, only pausing when Elliot’s hand wraps around his wrist. He feels Tyrell’s hips stutter, searching for purchase, for friction – but Elliot’s ignores that, focussing instead on getting his thumb under the edge of Tyrell’s glove.

‘I don’t like… Mess,’ Tyrell forces out, stilling as Elliot rips one of the gloves off, frustration coiling through him. He doesn’t say anything – _can’t_ say anything, every nerve in his body screaming at him, every contact point between he and Tyrell (hips, thighs, hands and wrists. Fingertips. Mouths.) buzzing. He feels, for the first time in a very long time, fucking _alive_.

For a moment they’re both paused, Tyrell watching him, Elliot staring at the blue veins traced across the man’s pale wrists. Slowly, fingers are traced across his jaw, a thumb brushing his lips –

And then Tyrell’s moving again, hand at his zipper, pressing kisses to his neck. He bites down on the skin there the first time his hands curl around Elliot’s dick, and he’s forced to listen to the sound of his own moan echo around his apartment, jumbling with the ragged sound of Tyrell’s breaths.

He rears his head back so he can watch Tyrell. He’s focussed as he runs his hand up Elliot’s dick, sucking hickeys into his skin until it hurts, biting down on the sharp jut of his collarbone as Elliot’s spine curves. He traces fingers through Tyrell’s hair, rests his hand on the back of his neck, shuts his eyes until he’s barely in his body, made only of sensation and shivers.

‘I’m – I’m gonna cum,’ he breathes out around moans, legs shaking as the hand on his hip tightens harshly.

‘Open your eyes,’ Tyrell whispers, a fraction of an inch from his mouth, breathing the words onto his lips. Elliot forces them open, chases Tyrell’s mouth for a kiss and whimpers when the man shifts back a touch. It’s only when he cums, hips stuttering, moans reverberating up his spine, through his throat, into the open air, that Tyrell kisses him, swallowing the noise.

He can barely breathe and there’s cum on his stomach and his jeans and Tyrell’s wrist –

Which Tyrell is staring at. _I don’t like mess_ , he remembers, just as Tyrell lifts his wrist to his mouth and licks, experimentally –

‘Fuck,’ Elliot breathes out, the word appearing of its own accord, and Tyrell’s eyes shift upwards just as he’s dragged in for a kiss, Elliot pulling his hips to his.

He’s fairly sure Tyrell doesn’t relish the idea of getting off like this, rutting against Elliot’s leg shoved between his, but it only takes a few thrusts before he’s coming. He moans quietly, more breaths than actual noise, shuddering as if it’s all being wrung out of him.

Silently, they both slide to the floor. Elliot lets Tyrell rest his forehead against his for a moment. He’s fascinating, like this, colour high on his cheekbones, eyes shut, hair falling over his forehead, lips full and bruised from harsh kisses. Elliot’s never seen anything like it.

He traces his knuckles along Tyrell’s cheekbones. Breaks the silence.

‘There’s something I need to show you.’

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> That promo photo literally killed me and I couldn't bare the thought of it being a deleted scene. But if it was THIS IS CLEARLY THE SCENE THEY DELETED.  
> Anyway. Hit me up on [twitter](https://twitter.com/peedonthefloor).


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